Apple

A red tractor moves slowly through an apple orchard.
At the end of a row of trees, the driver stops the engine.
He gets off his tractor and walks towards a tree.
He is a large man. He seems at ease within his body.
His movements are melodious. The sun shines on him.
He reaches out and picks an apple. Lightly, easily.
Standing in the dappled shade, he eats the apple.
If a good God does exist, this is where She is on duty.

Jane Røken

If you have any comments on this poem, Jane Røken  would be pleased to hear them.